


Learning to Lose

by Ichneumon



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abuse, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Family Drama, Jealousy, Possessive Behavior, Religion, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Sibling Incest, Soulmates, Unhealthy Relationships, Witchcraft, World War II, tomione - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-21
Updated: 2018-12-23
Packaged: 2019-08-27 08:19:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16698808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ichneumon/pseuds/Ichneumon
Summary: One day, while she is walking through the woods of Little Hangleton with her infant son, Merope Gaunt stumbles upon an abandoned baby girl crying underneath a tree.Merope almost leaves her, but then she has a change of heart.





	1. intro.

I must warn you.

This is not a love story.


	2. myself.

learning to lose: myself

* * *

Let me paint a picture for you: my canvas has no corners, no edges. Every minute detail, every stroke of the brush, has a greater purpose. You, the viewer, may not notice these little details – might not see the greater purpose of my design, but that isn't for you to understand. Your job isn't to comprehend my process, but to witness my masterpiece.

I have one, little problem, you see: there is one person in this world who is destined to share my paintbrush with me, destined to share my canvas.

They say that when you first meet them, you won't even realize who they are – neither of you will, until it has already begun.

It'll start off slowly. It'll start off with you waking up a little more tired and sore than usual in the morning. It'll start off with a slight ache in your lower back you never used to get before. It'll start off with laugh lines that do not go away after you've stopped smiling.

They say that when you first meet them, you won't even notice that you begin to age until it has already begun. Most people are okay with this, because it means they've found their soulmate – their one true love.

But then there's the legend of 'the pull'. They say that on incredibly rare occasions, a person could be blessed with this power. It's the power of subconsciously seeking out your soulmate. Only one person out of a matched pair are blessed enough to feel it, and I happen to be the one cursed with this blessing. This blessing isn't meant to be ignored for so long, so I feel like I'm being torn apart - ripped along the seams. She doesn't feel this torture. She doesn't feel what I feel. This disgusting longing. This silent war I've been waging on myself for decades by ignoring her. Some people like to call it 'the red thread'. Some people like to call it romantic, but that is saved for people who die in the foolish name of love.

Well...I am no fool.

And I am not hers.

I am my  _own_.

We only get seven reincarnations – seven chances to get things right. That is why I must stop this vicious cycle. If I must sacrifice her seven chances so that I may live forever, then so be it.

* * *

Each time I find her, she looks the same. Each time I find her, she becomes more difficult to resist.

The first time I killed her, I hadn't even  _hesitated_. It was me or it was her, and I'd sworn I would always choose myself first. Each time. Every time.

The second time I killed her, I wondered what kind of person she was – just for a moment. Only for a moment.

The third time I killed her, I studied her face: her freckles, her eyes, the corner of her mouth as she begged for mercy I wasn't quite ready to give to her yet.

The fourth time I killed her, I gave her one day. I remembered the color of her hair; the dull chestnut in the dark as it framed her ordinary, heart-shaped face like a halo as I affectionately caressed my thumbs against her crushed windpipe. For the first time, I'd  _almost_  felt regret. It was fleeting.

The fifth time I killed her, I  _almost_  thought about not doing it. When I watched her walk through the park with her nose shoved in a book, I thought about how I could just avoid her. How I could let her live out her life, let her live out her forever. Let her wonder when she'd finally meet me. Never knowing that she never would, that she would be immortal. Like me. My special gift to her.

But the pull was astronomical. I couldn't resist it - couldn't resist her. All I ever thought of was  _her_ ,  _her_ ,  _her_. I needed for it to stop, so I stopped it once more.

But the sixth time I killed her, I made the biggest mistake of my life.

I saw fire in her eyes when she looked at me and I _hesitated_.

It was my ruin. It was the first time I'd died. And she was the one to kill me, but not before I got her, too.

We lay in dirt and grime and filth, bleeding out in a dark alley together in a seedy part of London, fingers centimeters apart, jazz music fading into the night sky.

We are fading, too. She chokes on blood and all the words she wants to say, and I choke on all the ones I don't.

She stares at me with glassy eyes and I find that I cannot pull my gaze away from her, even still. I tell myself that it's because I'm dying and I'm desperately grasping on to what is tangible, but I know the truth for what it really is.

It is because I am weak.

I breathe one last time, lungs rattling, knowing that when I am born again – when  _we_  are born again – we will remember none of this.

I hate her for it, but I know I won't remember my hatred, either.

I have only two consolations to pull out of this situation: one of them is knowing that when she is reborn, it will be her last life.

The other, is knowing that I won't remember how content I feel to be near her like this. How I feel...absolute.

Our fingers touch. I smile and exhale.


	3. faith.

learning to lose: faith

* * *

Dying is a lot like falling backwards.

Hell is that brief period of time in descent.

Heaven is when you finally crash and burn.

With your broken bones and torn sinew and ash in your mouth,

you are born again.

Like Yeshua, only a little less holy.

* * *

In Southern Wales sits the picturesque town of Little Hangleton; with its rolling green fields, its beautiful forests, and its wagging tongues.

On the outskirts of this town, hidden deep within the forest, is a mansion. If you could still call it a mansion, with its boarded-up windows, its layers of vines growing atop dead ones, and its rotting walls. They call it the House of Gaunt, but no one dares go visit. Only a shell of a shell of its former glory. A ghost.

Its main resident, a young woman named Merope Gaunt, was Little Hangleton's local outcast. With her long, dark, limp hair that hung like a melancholy curtain, only parted enough to show her pale face. Occasionally, if she focused her sight too hard on something, one of her eyes would slowly drift to the side. And the way she held herself – like the weight of the world was crushing her down.

One of the kinder people in Little Hangleton once said she would look a little prettier if she didn't always look so defeated. Nobody agreed.

Those wagging tongues whipped nasty words against her back every time she walked by. They thought she didn't hear them. But she did.

_Ugly. Pauper. Ungodly girl. Witch. Devil worshipper. Satan's harlot._

Weekly trips to town turned into monthly trips. Then from monthly, to twice a year, if needed.

Spindly legs like spiders spun rumors like silk – the main source of entertainment in town was the  _only_  source of entertainment. Where was she getting her coin from? How was she getting food? Had she made a deal with the Devil? Sold her soul for a sixpence? What did she  _do_  all day in that corpse of a house of hers?

Even the town's eldest residents, the ones who still hadn't found their soulmates, didn't know how old the Gaunt girl was. One silk thread spun a tale that she was over one-hundred years old. Another thin thread spun a tale of well over five-hundred. Nobody knew. And nobody really cared.

How sad it was, that she hadn't found her soulmate yet. How sad it was, that she had no tally marks on the inside of her wrist. How sad it was, the poor girl was still on her first life. She still has time, poor girl. Poor, unfortunate girl.

Funny, how tongues always wagged a little bit differently on Sunday mornings.

Imagine the townspeople's surprise when Merope arrived in town for her yearly trip to shop for supplies in Autumn with a protruding belly.

No tongues wagged while she was there. They were far too shocked, far too stretched.

Merope Gaunt disappeared into the woods again, and no one had seen her since.

A new rumor suggested she'd died in childbirth. Another, that her child died and she went mad with grief. The one that gave the most chills was that Lucifer himself crawled out of pits of hellfire to take her and his demon spawn back down to Hell with him.

Perhaps not, but perhaps.

* * *

A baby boy wails before the sun rises on a morning in mid-May.

His young mother forces herself to wake herself up out of her state of exhaustion after being up all night with him. Demanding, her son is. All he does is cry, and all she does lately is cry right along with him.

Merope tells herself that he can't help it. Oftentimes, babies cry for no reason at all; even when they are fed; even when they are dry; even when they are warm. And that is how her lovely, beautiful son is.

 _It won't be this way forever_ , she tells herself as she tiredly pulls him out of his makeshift bassinet, but she still wishes it would end. How much longer she can deal with this, she hasn't a clue.

 _I love him_ , she tells herself as he greedily latches onto her breast and she sighs at the pain and comfort of release. She loves him with all her heart, even if he doesn't yet know it.

After he drinks himself into a daze, it is too late for her to go back to sleep. There is much to do.

Merope gently sets her son back down in his bassinet and kisses the single tally mark on the inside of his chubby wrist, then makes her way to the wash basin. She rinses her hands with the cold water and splashes her face to wipe the sleep away. When she rises, she's met with her reflection. She slowly brings her slender fingertips up to her face and rubs the area underneath her drowsy eyes, watching the way her young skin springs back easily, not a single crack to be found. Then she pushes her hair back, examining it carefully, only to find a brown so dark it is almost black.

Her arms drop lifelessly to her sides and she stares at herself in the mirror. The sunlight is just beginning to stream in. Merope sighs, turns away from the mirror, and starts getting ready for the day.

 _It won't be this way forever_ , she tells herself tiredly.

* * *

Collecting her own supplies from the wilderness proved to be difficult, at first, but then she became accustomed to it quickly. It was easier than the alternative, even with having to strap her baby to her back and listen to him wail in her ear half the day. She'd rather listen to him scream than listen to them whisper.

It was a good haul today: hazelnuts, chamomile, mint, dandelion, fennel, and mushrooms.

Merope was currently enjoying a moment of silence by indulging in popping a juicy blackberry in her mouth from a bush she'd just found, when her son awoke, fussing. She sighed wearily, wishing she could just have this  _one moment_ to herself, but then she realized the cry wasn't coming from her son at all.

Then she heard it: the deep voices of men.

She dropped down into the dirt, spilling her collection of wild produce, and crawled into the bushes, careful to not hurt or wake her son. And just in time, because two men, covered in sweat and grime, ran into the clearing she'd just been standing in.

The smaller man was carrying a wailing baby. Merope covered her mouth with her hands, afraid to breathe.

"Jack? Jack! What are we gonna do with her?" the man holding the bundle asked, panicked.

Jack was a surly man, all gnarled beard and gruff voice and second-hand suspenders. He paced frantically, taking his cap off, putting it back on, taking it off again, his eyes as wild as his hair. An idea came to him. He stopped pacing.

"Let's get rid of it," he suggested, then took a hasty step closer toward his friend.

His friend took a step back, looking scandalized. He exclaimed, "We can't kill an innocent babe! It's already bad enough she's an orphan now, because of us."

"And just what do you plan on doin' with her, then? Keepin' her? Raisin' her as yer own kin? Don't be daft, Francis," Jack hissed, his Irish accent thick.

Francis held onto the crying child, looking conflicted. "We could just…leave her here. There's a road nearby, right? Maybe someone will hear her cryin' and come runnin'."

"Aye, we could do that. But you know what we should be doin'?  _Runnin_ '. We need to leave this town. Cover our tracks. Make new lives for ourselves. I know – just drop her right here in this nice patch o' grass and moss. Let the wee thing take a rest," Jack persuaded.

"What about the wild dogs?" he asked skeptically.

"Blast the damn dogs!" Jack growled impatiently, then ripped the crying bundle out of Francis' arms and sat it down on the ground with little care. The blanket pooled around the infant's legs as it sat there, and Merope could see that she was a girl – not much older than her baby. A darling, terrified baby girl with short, brown curls and top teeth just starting to cut.

"Shh, shh, shh. There we are," Jack attempted to soothe the girl, but it was fruitless. He turned and motioned to his friend. "Come on."

Francis stared at her, unmoving, stuck in a trance of guilt.

Jack yelled, yanking at his friend's jacket. It was the first time Merope noticed the blood on his sleeve. " _Come on!_ We need to go!"

Francis turned away from the girl – they both did, but only one of them looked back once more before they were gone for good.

Merope waited for as long as she dared, the girl's screams piercing her heart harder the longer she waited. Once she was sure they weren't coming back, she scrambled from her hiding spot, slipping in damp leaves and dirt to get to her. The baby girl flinched when Merope appeared out of nowhere and she started crying harder.

She didn't want to scare the little girl, so she spoke softly as she scooped her up with her blanket, "Shh, love. You're alright. Everything is alright."

Merope examined the blanket. It was embroidered with a name. A name she had trouble reading, at first. Reading wasn't one of her strongpoints.

_Hermione Jean Granger._

Her wide eyes traveled slowly from the last name on the blanket, back to the little girl in her arms. Those men killed her family, but why they did, she had no idea. She didn't know much of the Granger's, as they were one of the newer families in town, but she knew enough to know that this little girl was all alone in this world now.

Merope wanted to take her, but she wanted to leave her. Things were already hard with just one, but however would she manage with two? And what if someone saw her with Hermione and recognized her? Would she get blamed for her parents' murders? Those fools already labeled her as a wicked woman, so pinning a murder with no evidence wouldn't be so farfetched. She'd be hanged in a heartbeat.

Merope's knees shook as she lowered herself down, her morals and survival instincts waging war as she set Hermione back on the ground. She was surprised when the girl didn't cry at this, but she didn't give it another thought. But when she pulled away, she felt resistance.

It was Tom. He'd woken up and he was reaching over his mother's shoulder, grasping at Hermione's chubby hand with an infant death grip, and he…

He wasn't crying. He wasn't  _crying_. He was silent, completely engrossed with Hermione's fingers.

Merope's mouth fell open when she counted all the tally marks on her wrist. Six little, black lines. Perfectly straight. Perfectly permanent.

_Only one life left._

Shame burned her cheeks and guilt soured her stomach at the fact that she was going to  _leave_  her there. She gathered her wits and her things, then scooped Hermione back up.

With Tom still strapped to her back and Hermione now adjusted at her hip, Merope said, "Let's go home, my loves."


	4. pride.

**learning to lose:**  pride

* * *

To run is to be free;

but why do I run? 

_I want to escape you;_

_but I cannot._  

I am caught by your smile;

stuck in your teeth.

* * *

On the outskirts of Little Hangleton, on a quiet Sunday morning in April, a fresh-faced boy, no older than the age of fourteen, surged forward into the safety of the tree line. He was almost certain no one had seen him.

"Oi! Get back here, you thief!"

The boy swore under his breath. 'Almost certain' wasn't the same as 'certain', apparently. It was Easter morning. He'd planned everything  _perfectly_. Everyone in town should've been at mass, but he'd forgotten to account for their servants.

His legs didn't carry him – adrenaline did. It carried him fast and wild, his feet slipping every now and then in a patch of rotting, wet leaves left over from the previous Autumn. He avoided the scattered patches of mud, because leaving behind footprints wasn't an option.

The two young men – only a few years older than himself – weren't far behind him, but were far enough to not have a good eye on him, he knew that much. The boy knew these woods better than his own reflection, weaving between the trees like he'd constructed them himself.

They shouted in the distance behind him again, and his erratic pulse grew loud in his cold ears. Without stalling, he snatched up a heavy stone, and shoved it into his coat pocket. He knew  _exactly_  where he was going.

He skidded to halt in front of one tree in particular and began to climb. If anyone had been around to witness him, they probably would have commented on his speed. They probably would have joked that maybe he'd been born in a tree. The idiots would have been wrong, of course; he was simply  _good_  at it. He was good at most things, if he were being honest.

The boy hunched down and steadied his breathing, even though his lungs were screaming for the fresh Spring air. The men ran by his tree, but slowed to a stop to catch their breath only a short distance away. The boy stiffened.

"Missus Tess'll have a conniption when she finds out some little urchin stole the good silver," the young man with reddish hair panted.

The other man, who was a bit rounder in the middle, took longer to catch his breath. "The Master's got more silver than he knows what to do with. 'Sides, he only uses it a few times a year, for finer occasions. He'll never notice a few pieces missing."

"Aye, but Missus  _Tess_ 'll notice. Remember what happened to Jimmy with the linens?" the redhead reminded his friend conspiratorially.

The other man swore something so awful that the boy's eyebrows raised in surprise. He reached into his pocket, deciding now was as good as time as any. Bracing himself carefully against the tree, he twisted his arm back and hurled the stone as hard as he could. It landed off in the distance in a bush, snapping twigs. Their conversation broke mid-sentence as they shared a look, then they tore off in the direction of the stone.

The boy snorted softly. "Idiots."

Once they were gone, the boy scrambled back down the tree, then jumped off the last branch. Pain shot through his right ankle, but he knew he hadn't broken anything. He just landed a bit too hard on his hands and feet, but it didn't stop him from tearing through the forest like he was still being chased. It didn't stop him from wearing a mischievous grin when the silverware clinked together musically in his pockets.

Those two men were morons, but one of them had been right about one thing: the master of that house really  _did_  have more silver than he knew what to do with. His only regret was that his pockets hadn't  _nearly_  been big enough.

The woods got thicker, but he knew right where to go. Parallel to the creek fifty paces, left turn at the tree with the funny-looking knot, right turn at the moss-covered boulder, then it was a straight shot through the overgrown shrubbery.

An ancient, wrought iron gate hung on one hinge, swallowed whole by overgrowth. It squealed when the boy nudged it open just enough for him to slip through. Straight ahead, surrounded by enormous beech trees and dense forests in all directions, sat his home: Gaunt Manor.

How it had ever earned the name of 'manor', he'd never know. It might have been a manor, at  _some_  point, but now it was nothing more than a shell. A shell with rotting staircases, boarded up windows, empty rooms, and curling wallpaper.

He'd heard from his mother how his ancestral home had once been the greatest in all of Little Hangleton – even in Great Hangleton. But then his grandfather and uncle became careless with their fortune and squandered it. Everything fell into disrepair afterward. She refused to tell him  _what_  had happened to them, but only said that they did  _bad things_  and had to be sent away, whatever  _that_  meant. He knew it was pointless asking; she would never tell.

He sat there, looking up at his only inheritance, knowing one day it would be passed down to him. It infuriated him, living there. Living like this. In poverty. Hidden in shambles.

He wanted to be known. He wanted to live like  _them_. He wanted to have what they had – what  _he_  deserved to have.

He sighed, then walked up the stone steps that led to his home. He shoved open the large, paint-chipped door, and the strong scent of lavender hit him in the face. It smelled overwhelming and he silently cursed his sister for always wasting her time trying to make this place look and smell nice. It was pointless.

"Tom, is that you?" his mother's tired voice called from the kitchen.

"Yes," he called in reply, wincing at the fact that his voice squeaked. He hoped he hadn't given himself away.

"Help Hermione set up for supper, will you?" she asked.

Tom rolled his eyes, but still made his way down the hall. "Yes, ma'am."

He walked into the scullery, where he found his sister scrubbing away at a large cast-iron pan in one of the basins. She hadn't noticed him yet, so he observed her for a moment. Just like he'd never know how the manor got its name, he'd never know how they were twins. They looked  _nothing_  alike. Tom's hair was jet black, like their Mother's, but it held more life than hers did, yet his sister's hair was a mess of brownish-reddish curls. And his eyes were a dark grey colour, but hers were hazel.

When they were younger, they got into a rather nasty fight. He couldn't remember what it was over now, but he remembered that he'd called her ugly, and she'd said that calling  _her_  ugly would only be calling  _himself_  ugly, since they were twins. But then, Tom, quite ruthlessly, let her know that she looked nothing like him – nothing like their mother, either. And so, they'd asked her why that was.

Merope had reached out and touched one of Hermione's curls lovingly, a sad smile on her face. "She looks like her father, that's why. Do not be so cruel to your sister, Tom. What goes around, comes around. You'd do well to remember that."

And he did. But what Tom had remembered well weren't her words of wisdom – he thought as he watched Hermione scrub that pan – but how misplaced his mother's smile was.

Hermione's normally riotous hair was pulled back, but only barely. Several curls hung around her face, which was smudged in spots with earth. The hem of her plain, sage green dress was caked with mud from a hard days' work. She rubbed the back of her wrist against her nose, smudging the dirt even more. Then she realized she wasn't alone and looked up at him with a severe frown. "Where have  _you_  been off to? You were supposed to help me dig for potatoes. I had to do it all by myself –  _again_."

Tom walked in and leaned against the basins, his mouth turning into a wicked scheme. "What if I told you I have something for you to make up for it?"

Hermione's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Like  _what_?"

"Like this," he answered, pulling a handful of the silverware out of his pockets.

Her narrowed eyes went wide and she hissed, "You went to the villa _– gmph!_ "

Tom pitched forward, pressing her against the basin with his body, and clamped his hand over her mouth. Her nostrils flared in agitation and her eyes were wild as she clawed her wet hands viciously at his arm.

"Why do you never appreciate my gifts, Hermione?" he asked in a low, threatening voice, his malicious grin widening in amusement.

Hermione dug her nails into his elbow in a sharp pinch and twisted hard. Tom cried out in pain and let her go. Somehow, she'd gotten ahold of one of the sharper pieces he'd nicked and was pointing it at him. Cunning girl.

"How am I supposed to appreciate them when they aren't mine to receive?" she whispered unforgivingly, showing teeth, making a point of her argument by jutting the knife toward his chest.

His eyes lingered on the intricate etching of the handle for a moment, then he looked at her. He wanted to say he knew she wouldn't give him a good slice for his behavior, but that would've been a lie.

"I'm  _making_  them yours. You deserve it. We both do."

Hermione's eyes turned into slits and her grip tightened. She needed more convincing.

"Come _on_ , Hermione. You should have seen how much this family had. It was collecting dust. They won't even miss a few pieces."

Her stance slackened marginally. "Were you seen?"

Tom scoffed and lied easily, "No."

She eyed him warily for a few seconds, then offered the handle of the knife back to him. He went to go take it, but she pulled it out of reach at the last second. "You're telling me  _everything_ , or else I'm telling mum what you did."

He gritted his teeth and replied, "Fine."

Hermione looked thoroughly pleased with herself as she handed the knife back over.

"But there's not much to tell," he added, digging the rest of the silverware out of his pockets. "The village is small, dull, and filled with idiots. They've got nice things they don't use or appreciate. The most exciting thing that happened while I was there was when I  _left_."

Hermione sniffed, then turned to continue scrubbing. "I want to hear it, regardless."

"I've told you everything, just now," he countered, dumping the silverware into the murky water with a splash, which earned a side-glare from his sister. "Unless, you'd like me to tell you a story."

"I'm quite sick of your stories, thank you very much," she snapped. "Did Mother send you in here to help me?"

Tom only gave her another wicked smile and ran out of the scullery. Just in time, too, because she'd thrown the scrubbing brush and yelled after him, "Go ahead and run, Tom! That's all you ever do!"

"Use the silver at supper tonight, or no deal!" he called back at her after he'd run up half a flight of stairs, leaning over the creaking banister.

Tom couldn't see her, but he heard Hermione groan from downstairs. She did not chase him.

Part of him felt triumphant. Part of him wished she had.

* * *

A short time later, the Gaunt family gathered around their dining table – one of the few nicer things they owned. Supper was never an extravagant affair; and when it was, it wasn't.

Sometimes, when Tom managed to snare a wild hare or squirrel, Merope tried to make their family meals appear to be normal. As normal as they could be, considering how  _not normal_  they were.

Most days, their mother didn't leave her room. Her heart still beat, but it didn't work quite right anymore, she told them. It was what happened when you were old and you were young at the same time. It was what happened when you were cursed with a bare wrist and a lonely soul.

_It's what happens when you don't live your life on purpose_ , Tom thought.

His mother wallowed in her aloneness. For years. He often thought that maybe having her children wasn't always enough for her.

Resentment was not the right word to describe how he felt toward his mother on most days, but it was the closest one he could think of. He tried not to, because she  _was_  his mother, but he needed someone to point a finger at. Merope loved them, in her own way – he knew that – but he also knew when her preoccupied eyes would stare into the fire, she was envisioning how her life would be now if she had found her soulmate. Fantasizing about it. Killing herself with the idea of it.

Hermione simply pitied her, and fed into her despair. And Merope let her. It infuriated him, but what was he to do? It was two against one. He was always outnumbered.

"Where did these come from?" Merope asked curiously, frowning slightly as she concentrated on the etchings of the fork she was holding.

Hermione and Tom shared a look from across the table, which was missed by their mother.

"I found them tucked in the back of a cabinet in the east wing this morning. I thought you'd like them, so Hermione washed them up," Tom lied easily, even when Hermione glared at him and kicked his leg underneath the table. He ignored his sister.

"Do you like them, Mum?" Hermione asked tentatively, walking on eggshells.

Merope's eyes lifted to her daughter, and she smiled.

"They're lovely, Hermione. One thing your uncle  _didn't_  get his hands on. Such a shame, they've been hidden away all these years, just collecting dust," Merope replied, then sliced into a boiled potato, her silver knife screeching against her dinner plate. She popped the bit of potato into her mouth, chewed, and swallowed. She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Well, we'll be sure to make good use of these from now on, won't we?"

Tom gave Hermione a pointed look across the table as if to say ' _See?_ '. She only curled her lip in reply and busied herself with eating her meal, and Tom followed her example with his own. Things were quiet for the span of two entire minutes, before all hell broke loose.

Merope threw her utensils to the table and quickly stood with eyes wide in horror, her chair crashing to the floor.

The twins stared at her in shock at her sudden behavior, because it was so unlike her. Their mother was always calm and collected and quiet. She never did anything unexpected, until now.

"Where did you get these?" she asked quietly, pointing to her silverware.

"I already told you, Mother. I found them in a cupboard in the –" Tom started.

" _Do not lie to me!_ " she screamed suddenly, causing Hermione and Tom to flinch.

He went tight-lipped and stared at her; she was livid, that much was obvious. For the first time in his entire life, he was afraid of his mother. Was she  _this_  angry over him going into the village?

There was no point in denying it; somehow, she knew. He swallowed anxiously and admitted, "I stole them."

Merope was breathing heavily, tears beginning to prick her eyes as she still stared at the silverware in a trance. "You went to the village, Tom. After I forbade it. After all the rules I have set. After everything I've told you about them –"

"You've told us  _nothing_  of them!" Tom exploded, standing, as well. "It's not fair! We're trapped here, wasting away –"

"We are not  _wasting away_!" she retorted, her manic eyes now on her son. "In case you haven't noticed, we're doomed to  _never_ waste away!"

"Because you won't let us!" he argued.

"Because I want what is best for you and your sister!"

"No, you don't. You only want what is best for  _you_. You want to find your soulmate, but you are too afraid to even leave this house! Our father,  _whoever he is_ , wasn't your soulmate and he didn't even  _want_  you –"

Merope leaned across the table and delivered his judgement. The slap was louder than it physically hurt, but it was mostly his pride that had been injured. Tom knew he'd gone too far, but he didn't regret it. It was something she needed to hear.

"Don't…you… _ever_  mention him again. Do you hear me, Tom?  _Never_ ," Merope choked out, tears running freely down her face now.

"Get rid of this, Hermione. All of it," Merope commanded, refusing to look at her son.

"What am I supposed to do with them?" Hermione asked fearfully, tears of her own threatening to spill over.

"Burn them! Bury them! Throw them into the river! I don't care how, just get them out of my sight! I never want to see them again!" she yelled, then hurriedly left the room.

They listened to her run up the stairs, down the hall, and into her room. Then, they listened to the deafening silence.

Tom couldn't bring himself to look at his sister, but he could feel her eyes on him. He swallowed his shame and began clearing off the table, slowly picking up one piece of silver at a time. Hermione quietly copied him.

How had his mother figured it out? She believed him initially, without a second thought, so what had happened between then and now?

"Tom," his sister started tentatively, but he interrupted her.

"I don't want to hear from you how I shouldn't have gone. I don't want to hear any ' _I told you so's_ ' right now."

"I wasn't going to," she said, and he finally looked at her. "I was going to say I – oh,  _please_  don't tell mum I said this – but I was going to say that I agree with you."

Tom blinked. "What?"

Hermione's mouth opened and closed, struggling to find the right words.

"I…I don't want to end up like her, Tom. I can't. I won't." Hermione pulled up the cuff of her dress and held up her tallied wrist. "This is my last life. I want to live it."

"Then let's leave."

The words spilled out of his mouth before he realized what he was saying, but once he did, he also realized that he  _meant_  it.

Hermione froze. She was quiet for several moments, and he waited, waited,  _waited_ for her answer.

"Soon," she whispered, "Not yet. We need time to prepare."

Tom nodded once, his eyes never leaving hers.

They went back to cleaning up, when Hermione reached to pick up their mother's silverware. She examined it with a frown and asked, "It says 'Riddle'. Why does it say that, I wonder?"

The corner of Tom's mouth lifted, the pain of his mother's slap still throbbing the skin of his cheek. "Who knows and who cares? It will forever be a mystery."


End file.
